There Will Be Blood

Review: The Merchant of Venice
Cutler Majestic Theatre, Boston
April 1, 2011

"If you prick us, do we not bleed?... And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" Shylock utters these stinging words as he comes to collect his bond: a pound of flesh from the merchant Antonio, who cannot repay Shylock's loan on time. Modern takes on The Merchant of Venice shy from making Shylock a mere villain set on vengeance. Ever more, directors have mined from William Shakespeare's "comedy" the racism and bigotry that pervade this Venice. After all, Shylock is not the only merchant in town. Money lenders make deals left and right, yet only the Jew is punished for capitalizing on the system.

Darko Tresnjak sets his characters' troubling actions in the present, a world dominated by MacBooks and Wall Street brokers. The relentless drive of the stock market and ever-ripening technology deserve blame for the degradation of Venice. F. Murray Abraham anchors the play with his wise, human Shylock. He is eloquent but fast of tongue; quick to deal but reduced to tears by the consequences. He sees how anti-Semitism runs in the blood of Venetians, and reminds in the words above that he also bleeds. And he loses his amassed wealth, first to a daughter who steals his riches, then at the hands of Portia, who cons a courtroom to save Antonio's life.

The exact law behind Shylock's condemnation feels like a deus ex machina, but I was convinced in this production that this was deliberate. Portia willingly bends the rules, certain that fortune favors her privileged, Christian class. As a Moroccan prince fails to win her hand, she says that she wouldn't marry a man of his complexion. Even once she and her maid Nerissa are matched, they toy with their men over their rings, perpetuating the lending game.

Despite the visible mechanics, Tresnjak's staging is not too cold. Kate MacGluggage as Portia radiates warmth considering her craftiness, matched by Lucas Hall's youthful Bassanio (apparently too naive to know whether he's in love with Portia or Antonio). The more comedic roles, unfortunately, are overdone, which includes Gratiano as a grating frat-boy. Better are the dramatic moments, as when Shylock is sentenced: the cast stands silent in fixed cells of light, trapped in their fear. I remain unconvinced by the final act where the lovers reunite. Who wants comedy after such a dramatic shift? But maybe Shakespeare's playing games, too: deceiving even his audience with a happy ending.

Written on the Wind

Review: Jane Eyre

If the opening credits hadn't rolled for Cary Fukunaga's new adaptation of Jane Eyre, I might have guessed I was watching Wuthering Heights. Mia Wasikowska as Jane rushes through rain-soaked moors, overtaken by despair and the unceasing storm. She reaches for the house just up the hill, but collapses in the thick heather. Only later, in flashback, do we learn how this quiet, anguished girl came within the grasp of happiness. Or did she? Fukunaga brings out all the Gothic elements of Charlotte Bronte's often filmed novel, and undercuts the hope that romance will conquer.

His film magnifies the tempestuous environment of the Brontes' works. Jane Eyre comes to Thornfield House as a governess under Edward Rochester, and must stand up to his temper and disdain. As Victorian convention dictates, he comes to express his feelings for her, despite her plain, unworldly appearance. But even their first kiss turns from tender to foreboding in Fukunaga's hands. The trees shiver about the lovers, accompanied by a melancholy violin. The natural world is cold to the humans who inhabit it.

The heavy anti-Romantic strain arises logically from Charlotte Bronte's devilish plot twist that arises during Jane and Rochester's hurried wedding. Wasikowska is an apt choice for Jane, with captivating calm and certainty that sustain the heroine through the most trying times. Jane does not lapse into victimhood, even when moors and men alike threaten to overpower her. Judi Dench as Mrs. Fairfax, the Thornhill housekeeper, can be eerie enough as she emerges from the shadows and cozies up to Jane, with an almost too-friendly twinkle in her eye. But she also provides comic relief to alleviate the ominous mood.

I'm not sure if Michael Fassbender is an ideal Rochester. He portrays his conflicted feelings toward Jane well, and plays their intimacy well. But he's more dry than arrogant in his first scenes, and too tamped down (I would say) to seem like a man capable of great passions. Perhaps, though, as Fukunaga's otherwise excellent film seems to impart, the passions are not man's but God's. The true desire of this lot is to survive.

Ketchup or Mustard?

Some foods evoke strong feelings. Cilantro, for one, has passionate opponents. Then there's the following anecdote from The Washington Post, June 2009:

When President Obama and Vice President Joe Biden stepped out recently for a couple of burgers... the president asked for mustard, preferably a Dijon style, while the vice president went for ketchup.

Whether we admit it or not, we define ourselves by our place on the ketchup-mustard spectrum. I am a firm mustard-arian. We are a Far Left-leaning people, open to possibilities and varieties. Mustard ranges from yellow to dark brown, from your standard bottle of French's to Grey Poupon, from grainy deli mustard to fusion with horseradish. Lest you think I'm painting mustard as stuffy, let me remind you that it need possess no whiff of class distinction. There's hot mustard in every Chinese restaurant, and honey mustard in every Chick-fil-A. Sure, it's a demanding condiment. The full-bottle shake is necessary, especially with American yellow mustard. But a little investment is necessary for maximum sandwich gain.


Worst Halloween costumes ever.



Notice how particular the mustard user is. Obama didn't just ask for mustard; he specified his preference. How could a ketchup consumer possibly compete? Is one ketchup different than any other ketchup? Ketchup is a food of consistency, familiarity, and comfort. (I know a few people firsthand who would agree that ketchup is a "food," not just a "condiment.") The ketchup lover goes for ketchup every chance he gets. I daresay that complimentary foods (i.e. French fries) might be even be ordered by the ketchup lover just so that he may eat ketchup with them. Refer back to Biden above: the president "asked" and discussed his mustard persuasion; the vice president simply "went for ketchup." No choice necessary. Simple as pie.



And what things these lovers pair with ketchup. Mac and cheese! Scrambled eggs! Note that the ketchup lover is adventurous when he finds food for his ketchup to mate with. He may not be as culinarily conservative as I implied. But with these strange pairings, there is often a slight apologetic acknowledgment: "It's actually really good, I mean it. But I would never put ketchup on this-that-the other." An aura of veiled shame has descended upon the ketchup community, as if they were afraid to expose their true nature beyond the hotdog stand.

If Joe Biden endorses it, it's a BFD. Hopefully those Far Right ketchupers will come out, one and all (the first step is admitting...), and find some middle ground with we mustard-arians. I'm willing to believe there's room on a hamburger for both of us.

Oscar Season 2010 Round-up

Though the first year of the "teens" produced few Great Films, there was consistency. The top ten at the Oscars, a pack of seldom-changing wolves throughout the award season, moved from Western to lurid thriller to little-seen indie, but all were good popcorn flicks. With the possible exception of Winter's Bone (which I have not seen), ponderous, weighty "films" were off the menu. Message boards raged over the spinning top from Inception, or the was-she-or-wasn't-she psychology of Black Swan--but in the end, both aimed for entertainment. They were no more than movies.

Take The Town. Ben Affleck never seems more at home than in Boston. He assembles an impressive ensemble for an action-packed thrill ride through the streets of Charlestown. Who cares if the apex of Charlestown crime was twenty years ago? All right, the script does indulge in Beantown stereotypes, especially Blake Lively as a white-trash townie. But Affleck embraces the adrenaline of his hometown, delivered with zest by hothead Jeremy Renner and briefly by the late Peter Postlethwaite.

Need two more hours of dropped r's? The Fighter elevates what could be a standard boxing comeback narrative into a superbly acted character piece. Christian Bale chews through the most scenery as ex-prizefighter Dicky, now a crack addict training his brother Micky Ward. Bale, along with fiesty mom-manager Melissa Leo and new supportive but tough girlfriend Amy Adams, tend to overshadow Mark Wahlberg as Micky. But Wahlberg's quietness supports Micky's struggle to find his own voice amid his rambunctious but passionate Lowell community.

King George VI seeks a tutor to regain his voice, marred by a constant public stutter, in The King's Speech. When the sublimely witty Geoffrey Rush tutors Colin Firth (an assured performance) through Pygmalion-like breathing/ shouting/swearing exercises, the picture is delightful. The conflict is largely internal, though the intrusion of deliciously sinister Guy Pearce as Edward VIII (king for a hot second) hints at the external tensions that are lightly touched on--Edward's Nazi sympathies, for instance. Director Tom Hooper avoids the air of stuffy British period films, though the wide-angle lenses used make for some odd (and overstated) cinematography that jars with the subtle work of his cast and script.

Pearce also surfaces in this year's breakout Australian hit Animal Kingdom. When Joshua Cody's mother dies, he moves in with his grandmother "Smurf" Cody and her three sons, who are notorious Melbourne criminals. Jacki Weaver is eerily maternal as "Smurf," overflowing with love but unafraid to resort to any measure to protect her family. The script shuttles back and forth, sometimes lacking in clarity, but the film spins a web of violence and mistrust. Down Under, all bets are off; Animal Kingdom has an edge 2010's big Hollywood releases can't match.

The enigmatic Banksy takes some edge off a street artist's process of creation and installation in the excellent documentary (mockumentary?) Exit through the Gift Shop. Is his subject Mr. Brainwash, an amateur filmmaker, legitimately transformed into a bonafide artist by emulating Banksy, Shepard Fairey, and the rest? Street art often has an everyman charm. But the work remains mysterious even as its creators are shown covering walls with murals at night. How else could we respect it (and should we)? Banksy seems to say, catch me if you can. I make movies, too.

Let's Hear It for PD!

The world may end in 2012, according to the Mayan long-count calendar and George Lucas. But book publishers are nervous about 2019... the year of great copyright change.

Most books you read (unless you're devoted to Dickens or Wharton) were published in the last ninety years, I imagine. Probably after 1923. Everything published before 1923 in the U.S. is public domain. So you can post it on your blog, tweet entire chapters from it, give dramatic readings at cocktail parties. But everything 1923 and after is... dun dun dun... copyrighted! (More or less, if copyright was renewed. But that's a whole messy can of money-hungry worms.) F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise (1920) is PD; The Great Gatsby (1925) is not. This works with films, too: Do whatever you want with The Birth of a Nation (1915), but hands off Gone with the Wind (1939).

As the twentieth century rolls along, copyright law gets more and more confusing. But works from 1923 until 1977 are PD after 95 years. Once their near-century is up, we can sell bootleg copies in the streets for profit. So all those books published within 1923 will cling to 2018 desperately, then bam! Up for grabs on New Year's Day.

Let's say that Disney doesn't try to renew rights to Mickey Mouse. Let's say the 95-year rule sticks. What literary gems will the copyright tidal wave release in 2019?

Honestly, not much. Willa Cather's estate might shed a tear for A Lost Lady, which will become PD. Then in 2020, all we'll really get is E.M. Forster's A Passage to India.

But 2021 is when the floodgates really start to open. Download your free e-books of An American Tragedy, Mrs. Dalloway, Manhattan Transfer, and The Great Gatsby. And soon it's on to The Sun Also Rises, Elmer Gantry, Death Comes for the Archbishop, and To the Lighthouse.

Yes, folks, it's time to plan your Oscar-winning adaptations of these classics. (Unless Baz Luhrmann gets there first.) Just keep the PD on the DL around Mickey.